


loving people by halves

by like_theletter



Series: MCYT [4]
Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Birthday Cake, But also, Crying, Gen, Hugs, Hurt No Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, Neglect, Platonic Relationships, for once, might be the softest thing i've written, pogtopia-era, whatever that says about me i'm not ready to confront
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-22
Updated: 2020-12-22
Packaged: 2021-03-11 01:01:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,392
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28236639
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/like_theletter/pseuds/like_theletter
Summary: He doesn’t realize it at first, because he barely remembers to keep track of the days anymore and god knows Wilbur’s not present enough to do it for him, but he decides to count the notches he’s made on his door frame for the first time in a while and realizes, oh.He doesn’t quite know how to react to this information. What happened last year? Tommy scrunches his nose up and tries to think. Last year was what, SMP Earth? Right, Wilbur woke him up early with pancakes.And now he’s here.(It's Tommy's birthday, and it's not quite how he hoped.)
Relationships: Toby Smith | Tubbo & TommyInnit, Wilbur Soot & TommyInnit
Series: MCYT [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2077845
Comments: 14
Kudos: 399
Collections: the writer's block's Secret Santa





	loving people by halves

**Author's Note:**

  * For [fen_the_magnificat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fen_the_magnificat/gifts).



> Title from Northanger Abbey by Jane Austen.
> 
> for the writer's block secret santa! hope you like it, fen!!!
> 
> we had these assignments for like an entire month and i wrote this in the last five hours before it was due :grinning: because that's who i am as a person
> 
> to everyone who yelled at me to continue writing i'm DONE are you HAPPY
> 
> also i know i messed with the timeline a bit but i think that's kind of cool of me yk 
> 
> anyway hope you enjoy the angst fest, as always, and sorry if there are any spelling mistakes, as always, because it is 3am, AS ALWAYS

Today is Tommy’s birthday. 

Today, Tommy turns sixteen. He doesn’t realize it at first, because he barely remembers to keep track of the days anymore and god knows Wilbur’s not present enough to do it for him, but he decides to count the notches he’s made on his door frame for the first time in a while and realizes, _oh._

He doesn’t quite know how to react to this information. What happened last year? Tommy scrunches his nose up and tries to think. Last year was what, SMP Earth? Right, Wilbur woke him up early with pancakes. 

And now he’s here.

Tommy swallows around the lump in his throat, shuffling back to sit on his bedroll. Wilbur forgot. 

Wilbur. _Forgot._

All of the normal feelings someone would have in reaction to that, the feelings Tommy’s been repressing, he guesses, suddenly swell in a horrible wave of misery that crawls up his throat. 

Tommy leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees, and twists his hands in his hair. Inhale, exhale. His eyes sting. He’s keeping it together. He’s fine. _No, really_ , he tries to tell his anguished aching heart, _it’s fine._

He’s an adult now, practically. Adults don’t celebrate their birthdays. He’s in a war, for God’s sake. He’s above it.

He… should be above it.

God, he wants _Tubbo._

Tommy wants his best friend. Tommy wants confirmation that Tubbo remembered, that _someone_ remembered, but he knows Tubbo’s not allowed to use his communicator and that he probably can’t visit because he just visited recently. There are reasons he hasn’t heard from Tubbo, at least.

Wilbur is here. Wilbur could have said something.

(But Tommy’s only been awake for a few hours, and though he can’t see the sun, he and Wilbur vaguely ascribe to a standard circadian rhythm. It’s probably early afternoon. Maybe Wilbur’s planned something. Maybe he’s going to surprise Tommy with a gift and the best cake he could make with what they have.

Maybe Tommy hasn’t really lost his brother yet.)

Tommy takes another steadying breath, stands, and scrubs the tears from his cheeks. He has things to do.

In the main area, Wilbur mutters to himself, poring over a map of the area spread out on a table. His hands are stained with gunpowder and ink. His pupils are blown wide. 

Tommy cringes at the look on his face. It doesn’t bode well for the ounce of Wilbur’s sanity Tommy is counting on to keep his hope alive.

“Wilbur,” Tommy says, after opening and closing his mouth several times like a fish, searching for something to say. “Good morn— Good, good after— What time is it?”

Wilbur frowns, reaches down with shaking fingers and traces a line on the map. Wilbur doesn’t acknowledge that he’s spoken. 

Tommy feels it like a physical blow. Like a punch to his sternum that ricochets through his ribcage and clamps his stuttering mouth shut. 

Wilbur does not care. Wilbur doesn’t care _,_ Wilbur doesn’t care, Wilbur doesn’t _care—_

Tommy turns away forcefully, jaw clenched, eyes stinging, trying desperately not to let the tears fall because what if Wilbur knows? What if Wilbur knows and he’s just _waiting_ for Tommy to say something, to expose himself as selfish and immature, to give Wilbur something else to point out as a reason why he’ll _never be president._

Well. Fuck him. 

_Fuck_ him. Tommy’s not going to give Wilbur the satisfaction of seeing him cry. 

Whatever. It’s fine.

Tommy swipes his pickaxe up off the floor and stalks out of the room, swinging his bag over his shoulder to go lose himself in mining netherite. 

_Best birthday ever,_ he thinks bitterly. 

Hours later, back aching and skin scorched with the feverish heat of the Nether, Tommy staggers back to Pogtopia with a bag full of ancient debris and a scowl on his face. 

Wilbur is nowhere to be found. Tommy feels his last hope of salvaging this day drain in an instant. 

He sets the ancient debris on top of the chest instead of inside it out of sheer pettiness, knowing Wilbur hates it when he does that. Wilbur will know he’s done it on purpose. There’ll be hell to pay. Tommy decides he doesn’t give a shit.

It must be nearing midnight. The ravine is colder than usual, and Tommy shivers, still used to the dry heat of the Nether. 

He’s cold. Cold, and lonely, and _hurt_ because his brother either forgot his birthday or didn’t think it was important enough to mention, but for some reason the chill is what gets to him.

Tommy feels the tears drip down his chin before he registers that he’s crying, and then as soon as he does— all hell breaks loose. 

He’s all hitching sobs and shuddering shoulders, thin arms wrapping loosely around himself as if to simulate the feeling of someone, _anyone_ comforting him, and he hasn’t felt happy in so goddamn long and he was stupid to hope his birthday would be _any fucking different._

Stupid.

Tommy takes a stuttering breath and swallows down another sob. Fuck, god fucking _dammit,_ he just wants— he just— 

“Tommy?”

What. 

Tommy whips around, hands automatically moving to swipe at his face, and upon seeing no one, he freezes. “H-Hello?” His voice breaks, and he feels his cheeks heat. 

“Tommy! Up here!” It’s Tubbo, whisper-yelling from a walkway near the top of the ravine, clearly on his way down. It’s too far away to tell for sure, but he seems to still be in his suit despite it being nearly midnight, and it looks like he’s holding a box.

Something in Tommy’s shattered heart mends, or settles, or whatever the fuck. The pressure on his lungs eases, and though he knows his eyes are still wet and red, a smile creeps onto his face unbidden. “Tubbo?” he asks cautiously.

Tubbo waves with a tired smile, and finally reaches the closest walkway. Tommy moves forward for a hug automatically, but then pauses. It’s fucking stupid, but the Wilbur that lives in his head sneers at the childishness inherent in that action. It’s stupid. He pauses anyway.

Tubbo frowns at his hesitance and sets his box down on the table. He looks Tommy up and down and his frown deepens, for some reason, before he opens his arms for a hug.

Beyond relieved, Tommy launches himself into the arms of his best friend, burying his face in Tubbo’s hair and clutching at the back of his suit. Tubbo stumbles back a little bit, probably not prepared for Tommy’s near-tackle, but wraps his arms around Tommy all the same.

Tommy holds back another wave of embarrassing tears. Somebody’s here. _Tubbo_ is here.

Tubbo pulls back gently, scanning Tommy’s face, worry present in the furrow of his brow. He gives a half-smile and says, “Happy birthday, Toms.”

Oh, okay. The crying is for sure happening. Apparently there’s no stopping it.

Through the blur of Tommy’s tears, Tubbo looks alarmed. His hands flutter around Tommy’s arms as if he doesn’t quite know what to do with them. He leans over and grabs the box suddenly, and holds it out to Tommy as if to appease him. “Here,” he says, end of the word lifting like a question.

Tommy takes the box with trembling hands, heart overflowing with fondness for his best friend. It takes him a few tries to undo the sloppily tied ribbon, but eventually he gets the lid off and— 

It’s a cake. 

It’s a _cake._ A birthday cake, with “Happy Birthday Tommy” written in red icing; shaky, like Tubbo put a lot of time and care into making sure the words were spelled right. Tommy can picture him now, hunched over the cake in some corner, icing in hand, penning the words slowly with his tongue sticking out like it does when he’s concentrating. 

Tommy’s heart bursts. 

“You made this,” Tommy says, and his voice sounds wrecked.

Tubbo laughs nervously. “Yes?”

“You made this. For me,” Tommy continues, swallowing past the lump in his throat. “You— Wilbur forgot, you know?”

Tubbo’s face falls, then softens in understanding. “I’m sorry, Tommy.”

Tommy sets the cake back on the table and moves in for another hug, because he may have lost his brother, for real, but he has Tubbo. He has _Tubbo,_ his best friend. How could he ask for anything more?

**Author's Note:**

> leave a comment of what you liked (or what you didn't) and thanks so much for reading! 
> 
> fun fact: this was originally going to be a sickfic and then i decided to scrap everything i had written and completely change the premise a few hours before the deadline because my brain hates me. brb mourning my lost clout
> 
> okay i have to get this posted before my computer dies BYE


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